The Devastating Horror of Being Boromir
by Spittle is Unclean
Summary: One night on watch, Boromir is troubled by the lustful behavior of those around him.


This is a short piece of fanfiction, devoted to Boromir. Boromir belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, but if you are reading this, you already know that and we need not say it again.  
  
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The night was very dark.  
  
It was a terrible night to be on watch, thought Boromir grumpily. He chucked a few stones at the fire with a dismal sigh, and scratched a bit behind his ear. His feelings were intensified when a pebble came sailing through the air and collided with his head.  
  
"Who threw that?" he cried, sharp tears stinging in his eyes. "You'd better run out here and show yourself, or you AND your mom are going to pay!"  
  
"Nobody," said a gleeful voice to his right. "I HAVE no mom, and you're an insensitive clod for bringing it up." The voice sniffed injuredly.  
  
"Do you mock me?" Boromir roared, stumbling a bit into the fire. His feet felt rather toasty.  
  
This time, no one answered; Boromir was left to stamp out the flames on his leggings by himself. His pride and his velveteen tights injured, he stumped over to the tent and gave Aragorn a kick in the ribs.  
  
"Your watch," he growled, knocking the other man about the head with a handy shield.  
  
"Can't answer you, I'm ironing," came Aragorn's gruff voice.  
  
"Like hell you are," Boromir scowled.  
  
Someone pinched Boromir's bottom from behind. "Why don't you let ME take the watch, Boromir?"  
  
Boromir growled, covering his rump with his Gondorian shield. "Beat it, Legolas!"  
  
The elf jumped out of the bushes with a roguish grin. He laughed airily. "Still mad about that delicious prank this afternoon, are you?"  
  
"No, I certainly am not," Boromir responded with a quick pout, making sure the shield covered all of his bottom.  
  
"Sissy," Legolas responded, twirling his silky locks with a large leafy twig. Despite the fact that the twig was leafy, he was able to twirl his locks with an incredible grace.  
  
Boromir teared up as he imagined what would happen if he had tried to twirl a leafy twig in his knotty hair. When he had been younger, Denethor had praised his strawberry blonde locks. But now Boromir's hair resembled a bird's nest. At least it doesn't resemble a rat's nest, he thought happily, remembering Aragorn. Still, Denethor praised his locks no more.  
  
How, Boromir thought bitterly, can Legolas be so fair of cheek and smooth of brow? He never, ever shaves! The bastard. And here it takes me a goddamn half hour to trim my beard. How is such translucent skin possible?  
  
The elf was now frolicking merrily about the tent, singing in a voice like a million bells.  
  
"I am the champion," he trilled. "Oh-oh, I am the best!"  
  
Boromir wished deep in his soul that Legolas would fall to the ground and be mangled by a passing horse. Unfortunately, no horses were in sight. But one hulking son of Arathorn had just stormed out into the open. Perhaps he would mangle Legolas, Boromir thought hopefully.  
  
"Legolas!" boomed Aragorn with gusto. "I really, REALLY want to mangle you."  
  
Boromir reeled at his luck. Extracting a flask from the folds of his worn cloak, he rested against the trunk of a gnarly tree to watch. He grinned with relish, awaiting the blood and gore. But instead, Aragorn swept the dainty elf into his arms.  
  
"Mangle you with my LOVE, that is!"  
  
Legolas giggled with ill-contained rapture. "Ravish me!" the elf cried, fainting dead away against the dark Ranger's chest.  
  
Boromir gave a huffy sigh and slumped against his tree trunk. If only Aragorn's smoldering gaze were directed at him! But it never would be, he thought darkly. Nor would Legolas's high-pitched shrieks of joy ever be directed at HIM. He was alone. He had always been alone.  
  
Getting up, he skimmed his bottom lightly with his fingers. Only moments before, Legolas' finger marks had burned afresh. How he lusted after everyone in the Fellowship!  
  
Except perhaps Gimli.  
  
But no, he was just old Boromir in the frumpy purple dress. Old Boromir who never got any loving.  
  
Except from Gimli.  
  
And that didn't really count, he added to himself with a sniffle. But, oh-- I must rid myself of these awful thoughts, Boromir shouted inwardly, wincing. I must concentrate on the watch!  
  
But it is terribly difficult to concentrate on the watch when Legolas is squealing so delightedly from that tent, he added to himself.  
  
But there are hobbit children, he reasoned, who need their strength. It is my duty to guard them so that they might have a peaceful night's rest.  
  
"Which is more than I can say for THOSE two," he muttered, glaring at his amorous companions, who were rolling together in the leaves.  
  
Perhaps if he darned the large rip growing in his purple dress, he could attract Legolas' eye?  
  
"No, you fool!" Boromir snarled to himself. "You leave those kind of thoughts alone! That's just inappropriate."  
  
This would probably have continued for a few more hours, if a large crashing noise hadn't distracted the poor man.  
  
A very large beast was staggering through the woods.  
  
He couldn't think of anyone he would have liked to see less. "Boromir, my man!" tittered the dwarf gruffly.  
  
"Hullo, Gimli," Boromir replied sulkily, turning his face from the affectionate kiss of the dwarf.  
  
"Ooooh," the dwarf said slyly, "it's hard-to-get, is it? Well, I'm game! Eeeheehee."  
  
"No, Gimli," Boromir cried. "I'm afraid you don't understand! I think this relationship is a failure, and I wish you would keep your clothing on!"  
  
"What, lad?" Gimli asked in a muffled tone as he tried to pull his chain mail over his head.  
  
"I feel we no longer...connect..." Boromir muttered, trying to remember the smooth lines Gandalf had used on Denethor.  
  
"CONNECT?" the dwarf bellowed, and Boromir winced. He had forgotten that ever since Gandalf's smooth lines, Denethor had not been the Grey Wizard's number one fan.  
  
He tried another tactic. "I...I LOVE you!" he cried, flinging his arms around Gimli's squat frame.  
  
When he saw how the dwarf reacted, it was plain that he had made a grave mistake. Wait till the boys at the Hornblower hear about this, he thought, beginning to panic.  
  
Gimli had wiggled free of his chain mail with a victorious snort and had now begun to remove his trousers. Tossing it into the bushes and ignoring the yelp of pain from the two tussling lovers, Gimli grinned fiestily at Boromir.  
  
"Eep," quoth Boromir, looking about for last-minute means of escape.  
  
He was about to give in to the lustful glances of the dwarf when the sound of Gandalf's yawns echoed through the camp.  
  
"Oh dear, Gandalf's up!" he cried, pushing Gimli away from the buttons of the big purple dress. "Musn't be up to any mischief!" He turned and fled into the woods.  
  
Patting himself lightly on the hand for his on ingenuity, he scarcely missed running head-long into several trees. When he was sure that he was miles ahead of his lecherous pursuer, he sank to the mossy ground.  
  
"My life is terrible!" he cried, his eyes filling with dewy tears.  
  
" Gotcha!" cried Gimli, crashing down from a tall branch and landing heavily on Boromir's chest.  
  
Boromir screamed in agony, and everything went black.  
  
THE END!  
  
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We hope you have enjoyed this tale, and we wish to let all our loving fans of "Dial Tone of the Heart" know that a new chapter is in the works and will be for some time. 


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